


A Birthday Fleet

by fandomfan



Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-06
Updated: 2008-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-05 01:38:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12180393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomfan/pseuds/fandomfan
Summary: A series of possible meetings and new beginnings for Jack and Jack.





	1. Téméraire

**Author's Note:**

> One of the greatest things about the [Impverse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity) is the variety of different ways Jack and Jack were set up to meet. Over time, lots of those possibilities were fleshed out with wonderful stories. At a certain point, I wanted to offer up a fleet of new possibilities. That's what this is.
> 
> And because one of the other fun things about this fandom is the wordplay challenges, each of these new possibilities is a 500-word ficlet.

Swordplay is a damn sight more enjoyable when it’s for show or sport, thinks Jack Sparrow, amidst a bout that’s for something very much more valuable than even the most impressive exhibition or high-stakes wager.  
   
It’s his life Jack’s fighting for at the moment, and he does set the greatest store by that most unique of commodities.   
   
Trick of it is, this Frenchman seems to feel quite the same way regarding his own existence, and even though Jack is completely, unreservedly certain that his own life’s worth a good deal more than Monsieur’s here (if in no other respect, then in the financial, since your average French merchant is in hock up to his pungent armpits, and Jack’s what you might call independently wealthy), Monsieur can be pardoned for disagreeing.  
   
That’s magnanimous, that pardon is, but it’s as far as the magnanimity will go, because Jack manifestly refuses to die in such ignominious fashion.  He refuses to be cut down by any old Frenchman in the middle of the ocean where no one’ll see his terminal blaze of glory, being as his crew are busy fighting their own battles with the foolish French sailors who couldn’t just surrender to the terror of the _Black Pearl_ like smart men who knew what was good for them.  
   
The most worrisome aspect of that horrifically anonymous scenario is that it’s looking rather alarmingly possible just now, what with Jean or Pierre or François or whoever here actually being disturbingly good with a blade.  
   
Jack’s sword arm is already bleeding heavily from a gash across the shoulder, and the pain of swinging it up again and again is reminding him of various times he’s had various foreign objects removed from his person without recourse to æther, laudanum, or—horrors—rum. Blocking the slashing French blade is even worse. And Luc-Marie isn’t nearly so battle-interferingly scratched.  
   
Fuck. Ow. Bloody buggering fiery hell.  
   
There goes Jack’s sword, clattering off across the deck. Utterly beyond reach. Which may as well translate to _There goes Jack’s life_ , really, because there’s nothing else even vaguely weapon-like to hand, nary a line to swing away on, and Louis-Auguste-Michel-Fucking-Bastard is looming over Jack’s head and raising his sword in a distinctly _adieu_ sort of way.    
   
And there, looming up behind Jack’s executioner is one of his mates to assist. Jack hopes they’ll kill him cleanly before any mutilation might occur. But this blond looks ferally vicious, and Jack doesn’t hold out much hope that–  
   
Huh. That’s interesting.  
   
Phillipe-Étienne-Take-That-You-Poxed-Whoreson falls open-mouth-astonished to the gory deck, stone dead.   
   
The unexpectedly life-saving blond spits on the corpse he’s just made and jerks his blade out of its entrails. “Bet you wouldn’t recommend locking me in your brig _now_ , would you, you snail-sucking, cheese-chewing, Leroy-loving, baguette-for-brains Frog?” he snarls (rather creatively).  
   
Then he turns to offer Jack a hand to his feet and a sunny, sanguine grin.  
   
“Name’s Jack Shaftoe,” he says. “Pleased to meet you. And save your life. Though not in that order.”


	2. Mayflower

He’s a wheeler-dealer, is Jack Shaftoe. Emphasis, at present, on the _dealer_. And a successful one, too. Which means he should get himself out of here before anyone he knows sees him. Should’ve known better than to try and market his pharmacopœial wares at the friggin’ Naval College!  
   
Fuck’s sake, cadets are a boring lot.  
   
Jack scans the room for a single man (there is a near-total lack of the female persuasion in this pub backroom containing what is intended to be a start-of-term new recruits’ party) who might have an interest in a Powdered Pick-Me-Up. It’s a dishearteningly nil-like number. As in, nil. They’re all like that stuffed shirt there, sipping his stout and hobbing and nobbing politely. Might make a fine Commodore someday, but Jack’ll cut half his dick off if the toff wants some blow.

Waste of time, this.  
   
He’s nearly to the door when he’s jostled sideward by… well, by a dervish. A skinny dark lad with a messy mass of dreaded hair, an obviously much-loved Motörhead t-shirt, and a just-as-obvious penchant for living the high life. Emphasis, at present, on the _high_.  
   
He sure as hell don’t belong at Dartmouth. But some of the gits wave him a nervous greeting before turning quickly away, and Jack concludes that, incongruous though it undoubtedly is, this one’s indeed training for the Navy.   
   
Dilated pupils turn swimmily toward Jack.   
   
“Sorry, mate,” he giggles. “Didn’t see you there. You all right? Didn’t injure nothin’, did I?” And before Jack can extricate himself, the nutter’s patting all over Jack’s person with a great deal more familiarity than is seemly.  
   
“Nah, mate. I’m fine,” Jack insists, grabbing those agile hands and pressing them away from his stashed-away stash.  
   
He’s sure it’s in the Naval code somewhere that pickpocketing’s frowned upon.  
   
He’s also sure this fellow was about to do just that.  
   
“Good good good. Wouldn’t want anyone injured. Not on my account. Not on– Turn it up! S’a good song!” The last of this rapid-fire prattle is to the barkeep, who reluctantly acquiesces, and the new, ubiquitous Smiths number whines out of the speakers.  
   
“ _How can you say, I go about things the wro-ong way_ ,” warbles the man, who is seemingly the only sailor at this whole damned college who will actually partake of illicit substances. And does. At Jack’s guess, on a regular basis.  
   
There’s potential profit here.  
   
So when the reeling, gyrating, admittedly rather fascinating man starts to reel and gyrate and fascinate against Jack’s body with the music, Jack doesn’t smack him a good one ‘cross the mouth, which is only one of several instincts that pipe up.  
   
No, he lets it happen. Until the song’s over, when he excuses himself and leaves, only to discover soon thereafter that the bastard’s swiped all the Chemistry Jack was carrying tonight.  
   
Jack makes inquiries the next morning and, at an hour well before the slippery thief is likely to be awake, knocks firmly on the door of one Jack Sparrow.


	3. Fengzhou

Jack Sparrow likes opium.

He likes its sticky-sweet fug and how Madam Cheung always gives him some _gratis_ when he brings a new customer off whatever ship he’s sailed into Singapore. S’why he’s here on her cushions, senses fleece-wrapped, while his mate Roger’s upstairs, doing that which his name suggests.

Jack doesn’t fuck the girls here. Knows ‘em too well. So he smokes and talks with Madam Cheung until she gets up (like now), adopts her Oriental clap-trap mannerisms, and answers the door. The woman’s English is excellent, but her patrons just want one of Madam Cheung’s Famous Jades, and she’s happy to play along. Better for business.

This new gent’s fine-looking. Tall. Blond. Chiseled. And from the looks of him (partickularly that protuberant trowser placket), Deprived for some time.

“Pretty girl for you?” Madam Cheung simpers.

“Heard tell you’re the best place in the world for… creativity. That right?” asks the anxious fellow, turning fetchingly crimson. Jack may be opium-hazy, but this one merits attention.

“Yes, Missa,” Madam Cheung says, palms together.

“Cut the Chinee crap,” says the newcomer.

Jack giggles.

Madam Cheung accedes. “Fine then. How can I help you? Creativity, you say?”

The blond nods, nervously belligerent. “I’ve recently suffered an unfortunate accident, which provides a unique challenge to one of your number.”

Madam Cheung nods sagely. “We’ve had men here who have… difficulties, shall we say, preparing themselves. They’ve–"

“I’ve got no _difficulties_ getting it up, lady!” the fellow roars defensively. Jack snorts. “It’s the next bit that’s my problem; that’d be anyone’s problem who’d had half his cock lopped off.”

Madam Cheung’s a consummate businesswoman and keeps her face politely blank. Jack does nothing of the sort. He struggles up from his pillows and sways over to the Truncated Customer. _This_ he _has_ to see.

“ _This_ I _have_ to see,” he says.  

“Who the fuck are you?” snarls Demi Knob.

“Jack Sparrow,” says Jack Sparrow, which should clarify matters.

Madam Cheung’s glancing round at the utter lack of available girls. Jack sees cogs turning in her head, and is therefore only a little surprised and not at all put out when she says, “Jack is the most _creative_ employee I have, sir.” He’s not her employee at all, but Jack won’t quibble.

Half Staff looks sceptical. “He’s a man,” he says, though that isn’t stopping him from staring at Jack’s mouth.

“Aye,” drawls Jack. “Who better to know how to touch you?”

Greatly daring, he presses against this great, strong man (who is ridiculously handsome, nevermind the tragic state of his nethers), and purrs, “Tell me your name, and I’ll take you upstairs and see to you right.” And, for reasons pruriently curious and just plain prurient, Jack most decidedly wants to do exactly that. No opium haze is strong enough to stop him.

“Jack Shaftoe,” rumbles the fellow, persuaded easy as Jack’s flexible morals. And Jack hums _C’mon then, friend_ , and pulls Shaftoe upstairs for what’s sure to be a damn’d interesting night.


	4. Black Pearl

Enoch Root’s an odd chap, but his money’s better than most. So, when he requests Jack’s assistance collecting moulds and algaes with an eye to creating medicinal compounds from them, Jack scoffs at such foolishness but negotiates a fair payment (some might say usurious, but there’re written volumes attesting to Jack Shaftoe’s skills, and if that don’t up a fellow’s asking price, Jack’ll settle down with a wife and a passel of kiddies).

The evening’s fine. A bit cold, maybe, but that’ll come of swimming ‘round London Pool at night in March. Which is what Jack’s doing: swimming and diving and scraping fuzzy stuffs off ships’ hulls into little jars.

Cold but fine, until he realises the twang at his foot means he’s kicked the spy-line affixed to this ship’s starboard anchor hawser, like some dolt who’s never snuck around boats before.

The need for breath trumps the one for secrecy, though, so, unfortunately, he surfaces. To lanthorn light and the jangle of the bells on the spy-line, showing just where he’s coming up.

They catch him in a net.

Jack’s never been hauled like cargo before. Not a bad way to travel, really. Only judging by the abundance of gold-toting perforated anatomies, Jack would lay money he’s now at the dubious mercy of pirates.

Soon, he’s being forcefully invited to stand still and face the Captain.

Now, Jack’s never met a Pirate Captain, but he knows they ain’t supposed to look like this. This bloke looks more catamite than commander; all fluttering cloth and clacking baubles, and a strumpet’s twinkling eyes and moue of a mouth.

“What have we, gents?” queries this odd fellow, who must have steel ‘neath that louche exterior, else how’s he in charge?

“Stowaway, Cap’n,” accuses someone.

“Ah, and what were you planning on doing all nicely stowed away on my ship?” the man asks Jack.

It’s been Jack’s experience that the implausible goes over best. In this case, that’s the truth.

And sure enough, once he explains that he’s no stowaway and that he’s merely been collecting some seaweedy samplings from the hull of this most beautiful of ships, Captain Fop laughs warmly and says,

“If that’s not the best defense I’ve ever heard, I’m not Captain Jack Sparrow.” He sweeps off his tricorne and bows elaborately. “And you, my stowaway?”

“First, not a stowaway,” says Jack. “Second, I’m Jack Shaftoe: Algae Gatherer. Among other titles.”

“Well, Jack Shaftoe: Algae Gatherer, I’m always happy to have the creatively larcenous on my crew. What say you to adding Pirate to that list of ‘other titles’?”

Jack’ll hazard Pirating’s a good deal more exciting than Algae Gathering. Ol' Enoch’s disappeared unannounced plenty of times; Jack figures he’s owed one. Plus, he can jump ship at the next port if he doesn’t fare well at sea-faring.

“Where do I make my mark?” he asks.

Jack Sparrow grins like the devil (sodomite or no, Jack suspects he likes the man), and says, “This way, Mr. Shaftoe. Welcome aboard.”


	5. Niña, Pinta, Santa Maria

Caribbean gaol’s a tiresome place. Jack Sparrow’s been in plenty of forcible enclosures, and he can state authoritatively that your standard Carib lock-up is the least exciting of the lot.

But today, he just might alter that assertion.

Because today, instead of a vermin-ridden, stinking, nasty, foul hole full of vermin-ridden, stinking, nasty, foul miscreants, Jack finds himself in a vermin-ridden etcetera etcetera with just one other miscreant. And though that miscreant’s surely vermin-ridden, notably odoriferous, and appears to be, yes, quite nasty; oo, he’s anything but foul.

This one’s fine and fair and other things that mean foul’s opposite. Seems wrong, in fact, to find such an exemplar of the human form in a place like Puerto Bello’s stockade. (Though Jack himself is here, and if he ain’t an exemplar of the human form, he’ll eat his really rather excellent hat. It’s a good hat. He doesn’t intend to lose it to the ravages of digestion.)

If gaol’ll provide the likes of this one, Jack’s been looking for bedfellows in the wrong places all these years.

“Welcome to the Caribbean, love,” he offers, friendly-like.

The blond scowls at him. Oo-er. 

“Hardly new to the Caribbean, me.” The dark brows’re furrowed in that tanned face, but the new fellow gives Jack a promisingly intrigued once-over. Interesting.

“Welcome to one of her penitentiaries, then,” Jack offers, along with his hand. “Jack Sparrow, First Mate of the _Black Pearl_. Pleased, I’m sure.”

Adonis looks at Jack’s hand a moment, then meets it with his own. “Jack Shaftoe, King of the Vagabonds.” He grips strong, and possibly a mite longer than necessary.

“What’re you in for, then?” Jack queries politely.

“Killed a man,” answers Shaftoe. (Jack’s always appreciated a good violent streak.) “’Parently the wrong man to kill round here.” 

“Oh? And who might that’ve been?”

“Some Lieutenant Buggery or other,” Shaftoe says dismissively.

“Hah! Navy,” cages Jack. Shame if this one can’t be persuaded to’t.

“Nah. Well, he _were_  Navy,” Shaftoe says, then looks Jack up and down again; slowly, pointedly. “But he were got up like a filthy pirate.” 

Jack ignores any and all implications. “And you thought he was just another randy buccaneer, eh?”

“Aye. Had enough of them,” declares Shaftoe. Jack’s spirits are sinking fast. “Soon's I get free, I'm headed back to England where men are men and the sodomy's consensual.”

“So it ain't precisely the sodomy you object to. Just unwelcome solicitation of same.” 

“Just so.”

Aha! Jack’s spirits’ve found a floating spar to cling to. No… belay that. Shaftoe’s eyes are still on Jack. All over Jack. Jack’s spirits are sitting pretty in a trim little cutter.

“And if there came your way,” he risks, “solicitation of same that wasn’t so unwelcome,” here with his own appreciative once-over, “might it end in something a little less fatal?”

“It might indeed.” Shaftoe’s answer could, without exaggeration, be termed a growl.

Jack’s mighty cheered.

“Mr. Shaftoe, once we’re out of here, I've a proposition to put to you.”


End file.
